Amazing how her near miss with death had cemented their relationship. For the longest time, Taylor worried that he’d stayed out of pity. Now she knew better. Smiling to herself, she went down the hall to the Sex Crimes office. The room wasn’t empty, but all the detectives seemed preoccupied. She knew that Brian Post had told everyone that Betsy had been in a car accident and was in the hospital. This was the most plausible excuse anyone could come up with, and it masked her injuries wonderfully. He’d mentioned that Lieutenant Jackson from Homicide was going to look over the Rainman files while Betsy was laid up, and when she entered, she got a couple of friendly waves. Waving back, she walked over to Betsy’s desk, where some kind soul had already pulled the files and bound them with a rubber band for easy transport.

She grabbed them and scooted out before anyone wanted to get into a big discussion, and went back to her office. The hallways were coming to life, uniforms and plainclothes men and women started drifting by in clumps of two or three. As she walked back to Homicide, the spirit came back into the building. She sighed. It had been nice to have the place so quiet. 122

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She went into her office, switched on the lights and closed the door. She wanted some privacy to go through these reports. Seven women brutalized, not counting Betsy. Regardless of their lack of physical injury, emotionally they’d be scarred for life. She wanted to give them some respect.

She sat at her desk, took a deep breath and opened the casebook. An antiseptic summary greeted her. No conclusions, just the facts. She started to read, and was soon lost in the reports.

Taylor jumped when she heard the knock at her door. She laid a sheet of notebook paper strategically across the open files on the Rainman, just in case it was someone she didn’t trust to know what she was doing, and yelled, “Come on in.”

The door opened and Lincoln Ross stood there, filling up the entrance with his broad shoulders and beautiful Armani suit. Lincoln was a clotheshorse, plain and simple. He was also one of the most talented computer detectives that existed. He could track a fly down if it landed anywhere in cyberspace. He gave her a gap-toothed grin, deep dimples forming in his mocha skin. “Whatcha working on, LT?”

“A new, well, an old case but new to us that’s been dropped in our laps. Where’s Marcus?”

“Getting a soda, he’ll be here in a second. What’s the case?”

“Let’s wait for him, I don’t want to go through it twice. How was court?”

“Excellent. Nailed the bastard. He’s never going to practice again, unless they give out medical licenses in All the Pretty Girls

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jail.” Lincoln and Marcus had been working the alleged accidental death of a Belle Meade matron for a couple of months. Instinct told them it was a homicide, but the scene was set to look like a very convincing suicide. They’d been right. The husband of the victim had slipped a lethal cocktail of cyanide in his wife’s drink before he put the gun in her hand and pulled the trigger. Lincoln had cracked the case before the medical examiner when he found a draft copy of the suicide note that had been deleted from the husband’s computer. Lincoln was still on a high. “Convicted him for first degree. They had that poor jury sequestered out for two weeks, but they came in with the verdict first thing this morning.”

Taylor nodded her thanks. “Good job. Hey, Marcus.”

Marcus Wade strolled into the room looking like the cat that licked the cream off the canary.

“You look quite pleased with yourself.” Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Marcus was young and handsome and got such a charge out of catching the bad guys. So many cops simply didn’t care, they just wanted to close a case. Marcus and Lincoln took a lot of pride in their capabilities, and Taylor was glad for it. It kept them motivated.

“I’m just the greatest homicide detective that ever lived,” he bragged. “Next to you, of course, Loot.” He winked and she blew him a kiss. Lincoln coughed into his hand, the muffled explosion sounded suspiciously like “bullshit.”

“You’re right, you are fantastic. So are you, Linc. Come on in and shut the door.” They looked at her skeptically but did as she asked. They got seated in the 124

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not-so-comfortable chairs across from her desk. Lincoln pushed the door closed with his foot. With the three of them in the room and the door latched, it felt more like being in a cell. Though the office afforded more privacy, the room was tiny. Taylor filled them in.

“We’re going to be working on a new case. You’re both familiar with the Rainman?”

Lincoln’s eyes grew wide. “The rapist? Did he kill someone?”

“No, he didn’t. But he raped Betsy Garrison last night.”

She waited for that news to sink in. Lincoln opened his mouth, then closed it with a brief shake of his head. Marcus spoke first.

“I assume you want this kept quiet?”

“Got it in one, puppy. We need to keep Betsy’s name out of it at all costs. She doesn’t want the people in her unit to know she’s been raped. She got beat up pretty badly, too, and Brian Post’s been informing people she had a car accident. Bless her heart, she’s okay about the rape. I was at the hospital talking to her and she really was holding up well. Better than I would be.”

“Did she have any information that we can go on?”

Marcus had already switched into investigator mode.

“Fitz and I processed the scene, and we got a whole lotta nothing. There was a print on the back door that I lifted, and we need to see if that matches up with the prints on file from his past rapes. There’s good and bad news, too. They have DNA, from all the rapes. They haven’t released it to the public, or any of us for that matter, because TBI can’t get the more recent rapes into CODIS. We’ve got DNA from Betsy, and the spermicide that was found in her PERK matches the All the Pretty Girls

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condom brand he’s been using. We’ve got the rope, but it’s the same generic kind he’s been using all along.

“Here’s what I want. Both of you look at this like it’s never happened before. New rapist on the street. Brandnew case. We have no usable evidence, no leads. Just find out who he is for me. Start here.” She handed them both a copy of the summary sheet.

While identifying information was scarce, the Rainman had an incredibly unique pattern that was baffling the police. He only raped in months that ended in the letter Y—January, February, May and July. He only struck when it was raining, sometimes even in violent thunderstorms. Every attack came on the third Thursday of the month. And he’d only done two rapes a year. He’d struck twice in 2000, 2002 and 2004.

“This is the name and address of his last victim. She thinks she may have an idea of who he is.”

“You’re kidding?” they both chimed.

“No, I’m not. Betsy spoke with her after the latest rape, said she was really reluctant to relive the crime and give decent information. Problem is, she couldn’t identify him. Doesn’t know his name, can’t remember where she knew him from. It’s more like something about him seemed familiar to her. So go talk to her and see if you can jog her memory.”

Marcus was reading the summary sheet. “There are a couple of major discrepancies here. He didn’t hit on a Thursday, for one. We’ll have to wait on the DNA—

Taylor, are you sure we don’t have a copycat?”

“I’m not sure of anything. Betsy seems positive that this was the Rainman. But you’re right to question that. Get the print run. That should tell you pretty quick if 126

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it’s him or not. Criminals break their patterns. Trust the evidence, it won’t lead you astray.”

“Okay, LT. We’ll let you know.” Marcus stood and stretched.